


1-2 Crush on You

by cereal



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4959232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We'll skip all this, go right to a place where you're more comfortable. We'll want to aim for that sweet spot between knowing all those little idiosyncrasies and them becoming annoying, I'd imagine." (vaguely Halloween-flavored AU smutty fluff!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1-2 Crush on You

**Author's Note:**

> I realized I'm now three-for-three with my CS fics being of the, oh, oops, are we accidentally dating? AU variety, so it seemed only fitting to also go three-for-three with Clash songs as fic titles.

Technically — _technically_ — there are 26 mistakes that have led her to this restaurant.

This dumb, expensive, _romantic_ restaurant that's easily the nicest place she's ever been on a date in her entire life.

And technically — _technically_ — there are a million ways to order that list of mistakes.

There's chronologically, which would mean her first mistake was listening back in the eighth grade when Tamara Mendell said the dark circles under Emma's eyes made her look like a raccoon, and sent her rushing to the drug store for concealer.

(And for an ice pack for her knuckles, after she used her fist to make sure Tamara's eye — the left one anyway — looked just as black and blue.)

There's in order of ease-of-prevention, which would mean her first mistake was ever deciding she was worth more than drug store concealer, and switching to the fancy kind only available at Sephora.

(It just goes on so _well_.)

There's in order of personal failing through narrow-mindedness, which would mean her first mistake was initially assuming the guy across from her had no interest in women.

(Or, well, _sexual_ interest in women. Because it was clear he was quite interested in them in other ways — like in making them feel beautiful and taking their money by up-selling them the fancy BB cream to go with the concealer that now sits in her purse.)

There's in order of _This is Ruby's Fault_ , which would mean — oh, fuck it, this is Ruby's fault any way you slice it.

(And Victor. Victor who takes care of his skin more expensively than Emma and Ruby combined, citing hospital soap and the specter of omnipresent illness.

Victor who dashed her hopes of a non-heterosexual Killian Jones with only a handful of words.

"He has a tattoo with a woman's name."

"....That could be for his mom."

"It's a heart with a _dagger_ , Emma.")

But really ( _technically_ ), it's her own fault. Because for one crazy moment on her lunch break, sitting face to face with Killian in a make-up chair, all blue eyes and careful attention and light touch, it really had seemed like a good idea to agree to dinner.

And now she's finding out just how out of practice at all this she is.

"So you, uh, you aren't from here originally?" She winces at the banality of the question — what is _wrong_ with her?

"What could possibly have given you that idea, love?" He's smiling at her teasingly, either oblivious to her fumbling or reveling in it.

"That vest for one," she says. "You'd never catch an American in that."

He looks mock-affronted, shoulders drawing back as he brushes imaginary dirt from his chest. "I'll have you know I'm an American _now_ , so you have, in fact, caught an American in this vest. Lucky you."

He winks at her and she reaches for another roll — her fifth.

If she keeps shoveling bread into her mouth, she can't talk.

"What about you? What part of _America_ are you from?" He draws the word out, the vowels sounding much more nasally as he mocks her.

"Boston," she says around a mouthful of bread.

Classy.

"And what brought you to Storybrooke...?" He asks the question in such a leading, prodding way, like he's urging her along the flow of what should be a natural conversation.

"My son." She's a little distracted, trying to get the waiter's eye for more bread.

"Right," he says, not missing a beat. "And he's how old?"

"Fourteen."

"Ah, you'll have to let me know what he decides to be for Halloween, might be able to help with the makeup — I'm a bit of wizard with fake blood."

"Is that so?"

He nods, casually signaling the waiter and gesturing at the bread basket before she even realizes he'd come near. "Tricks of the trade, of course."

"Well, I think he wants to be a zombie, so you may have just bitten off more than you can chew. Literally. Or metaphorically? Or is that a pun?"

He smiles at her like he's charmed, and she begins to doubt the rationality of having this man around her son — there's clearly something wrong with him if this conversation is one he's enjoying.

(It's not that she's _always_ been bad at this. She was good, once, probably. Before Neal. Before fucking _jail_. Before Henry and, oh god, oh jesus, that means it's been _fourteen_ years and —

No.

That can't be right.

Can it?

Oh god.

Well.

Fourteen years without _dating_ someone. You don't have to _date_ to do...other things. That's only been —

Oh god.

Well, two years is still less than fourteen, even if it’s the only time she’s ever counted Walsh as anything other than a mistake.)

"Emma? _Emma_."

"Huh?"

"Love, I'm not sure what that roll did to you, but it might help to talk about it." He gestures at the shredded bread on her plate, the little peeled-off pieces of asiago cheese.

She scoots all the food scraps into a little hill, pinching it between her fingers and popping it in her mouth, like this was exactly how she'd meant to eat it.

"So," she says, when she finishes chewing. "How did you get into makeup?"

He looks amused and then scratches behind his ear. "The Cure."

It takes a second to process and she mentally replays what she'd said — did she ask about favorite bands instead? It's definitely all on the same mundane question spectrum.

"Uh, what?"

He shrugs. "Wayward British youth that felt his feelings very deeply, Robert Smith seemed like an appropriate role model."

"Ah," she says, and the waiter deposits more bread on the table, an assortment that includes one of those long crispy stick things and she considers the possibility of it reaching her brain if she shoves it up her nose.

It's not him, it's not him at _all_ , it's her.

Her and the way she knows this won't go anywhere because she's not going to let it.

Her and the way Sephora is only a block away from the sheriff's station and it was _such_ a good place to walk around when she just needed to get out of the office.

Her and the way she's not ever going to be able to go back there and she'll have to start buying her makeup at CVS again and she'll probably break out and then she'll never be asked on another date again and she's going to die alone because Henry is going to grow up and not have time for his zit-faced, gun-carrying mom and god, this guy is really, _really_ handsome.

"Listen, lass, do you not want to be here? Because I'm actually quite perceptive, and it seems like you...don't."

"No, no, it's — I do want to be here, I think."

"Such flattery, darling. That almost sounded convincing, I'm blushing."

She rolls her eyes, but couples it with a half-smile to take the sting out. "It's not that, I just — I don't do this, the first dates and the getting to know you stuff, I'm much better a little while in, you know?"

"Aye, there's —"

He's cut off by the waiter setting their entrees down with a half-hearted apology for the interruption.

She watches the way Killian nudges the asparagus back from his steak, repeating the same action a second later with his french fries — fucking _pomme frites_ on the menu next to a price more than an entire brunch at Granny's, but it does give her an opening.

"See? Like that. If we'd been together for a while, I'd know you're the type of guy that doesn't like his food to touch, and you'd know that I'm going to need some of your french fries, because even though I have my own, I'm going to want more."

He nods. "All right, I'm in."

"What?"

"I'm in, lass. What'll it be? Nine months, a year, two years?"

"Wait, _what_?"

"We'll skip all this, go right to a place where you're more comfortable. We'll want to aim for that sweet spot between knowing all those little idiosyncrasies and them becoming annoying, I'd imagine."

"I, uh. I don't think it works like that."

"Says who?"

A picture of Mary Margaret flits through her brain, but she shakes it off. "I don't know, the...president of dating?"

"Well, I didn't vote for him. Which is something you should know by now — I vote. You?"

"Uh, yeah, me, too, but still you can't just — _we_ can't just —"

He holds his finger up, squirming around in his seat until he pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He taps at the screen, a few finger scrolls, and then he's turning it around.

"That's Liam, he's my older brother, he lives in London still and practically raised me. I've got a touch of hero worship and a spot of an inferiority complex where he's concerned, but he's the person I love most in the world."

He flips the phone back and taps it again before showing it to her once more.

"That's our boat, it's called the Jolly Roger because I have a _bit_ of a Peter Pan thing. Well, a Captain Hook thing. I did a stint in the navy, where I busted up my hand — my _left_ hand — and was honorably discharged. It's mostly healed now, but it hurts when I do this."

He makes a tight fist, wincing, and she laughs. "Well, don't do that then."

"Aye, exactly." He makes another tap on the screen. "This is my apartment, it's always that tidy. I'm a tidy person."

She's a little bit confused, but mostly in a positive way — what an efficient way to get information. More things should be like this. _Work_ should be like this. _Hi, I'm a criminal, I set that fire because I'm mad at my wife, and I'm here to serve my time_.

If only.

He tucks his phone back into his pants. "We can do you after we eat."

(His french fries appear on her plate just as she's finished her own. Maybe this _could_ work.)

&&.

They establish a series of ground rules on the walk to her house after dinner.

It's mostly just a lot of playing along, making it into a game. She's not entirely convinced it's going to go anywhere beyond tonight, but it's better than earlier when she was tearing bread into bits.

If he takes his coffee with two sugars and a splash of milk, and she comes back with it black, that's his new favorite.

If she prefers the classic rock station and he turns on public radio instead, she's got a new preset.

They're each allowed three vetoes a week — a misidentifying of facts so egregious that they can't possibly abide it, and he tells her she's already technically used one when she insisted on paying for dinner, even though he'd named her as the sort that would let him pay.

She'd done her greatest hits shortly before that bill squabble — a picture of Henry, a picture of her friends, and a Google image search for pictures of sheriff's badges.

(She has a picture of her own badge actually, in a secret album on her phone, all the sentimental stuff she'd never cop to memorializing, photos of photos, transported from phone to phone, Henry's kindergarten artwork, the key to her first apartment, a vase full of flowers from that few months with Graham — and, ooh, Graham, he counts, and she mentally crosses out the 14 year dry spell and makes it a 12.)

There's been a handful of other tidbits along the way, things that have come out now that she's not so worried about first date jitters or never being able to shop at Sephora again.

(Which, bonus, this new longterm relationships means he's going to give her access to his employee discount.)

He knows about the foster homes and the cinnamon on her hot chocolate, he knows Neal's _name_ , at least, if not the entire history there, and she knows about his "woman with a dagger" tattoo, and the way his dad occasionally roughed him up before leaving for good.

It's a lot of...heavy material. But somehow, told like this, like it's nothing more than a Monopoly board or a deck of cards, it's not so bad.

By the time they reach her door, she's almost sad to see him go.

"All right," he says, dropping a kiss on her forehead. "See you tomorrow!"

"What?"

He smiles softly at her, like he's endeared. "Oh, love, did you forget again? It's the farmer's market, gotta get some blueberries for that pie you wanted me to make."

She considers using another veto, it's not like she needs to save them if she never sees him again, but instead she finds herself agreeing.

"Uh, right, yeah, don't forget I like the kind with the crumble-y top."

He knocks his shoulder into hers. "As if I could possibly forget, after that pie debacle on your birthday."

She laughs, he really is going balls to the wall on this thing. "Oh, yeah, my birthday _last_ year, since it's coming up again in two weeks. On the 23rd."

He winks, tapping the side of his head to note he's stored it away. "'Til tomorrow, love." And then he's walking away.

What the _fuck_ was that?

And why is she sort of into it?

&&.

Henry — in a wholly unsurprising move — understands the game immediately, even though she's only given him the thirty second version in between her phone ringing Saturday morning and putting her shoes on to meet Killian in front of her building.

"It sounds like fun, Mom. You could use some fun."

"Kid, it's playing pretend."

"Right, and grown ups _never_ play pretend," he says, drawing the word out. "Please, Ruby _pretends_ that I believe the hickey on her neck is just a bruise at least twice a month."

"Henry!" His laugh is drowned out by the sound of her phone ringing again. "We're not done talking about this, but I have to go buy blueberries now because _of course_ I do."

"Real blueberries or pretend blueberries?"

She tosses a flip-flop at him.

" _Behave_."

&&.

The farmer's market passes almost uneventfully, mostly because anytime anyone she knows tries to say something or look pointedly at the way she and Killian are holding hands, she glares at them.

Granny, of course, had glared right back, but they leave the park where the market is held with cloth shopping bags full of all sorts of fruits and vegetables. More than she's ever had in her apartment in her entire life, she's sure.

(He'd double-checked on the reusable bags, because, "we're both the sort of people interested in saving the Earth, right, Swan?" And the way he'd phrased it, it was like he was looking for a veto.

When she'd asked, he'd mumbled something about seeing exhaust from her Bug on Main Street and she'd iced him out for the entire five minutes they spent at the roasted nut booth.

If he wants a real, longterm relationship, he should know better than to insult her car.)

(She does send herself a reminder to schedule a smog check though.)

It's when he goes to turn left on a street she'd turn right at that the logistical issues present in this sort of arrangement make themselves known.

"Where are we going?"

He tilts his head in the direction he'd tried to steer them. "Back to my flat, I have a pie to make."

"But..."

"Oh, right, of course," he nods, apparently playing along with the game. "Your oven is much more suited to pie-making."

She shakes her head, because _no_ , her oven is full of old files and hasn't been used as long as they've lived there. The only things she can cook — grilled cheese and pancakes — get made on the portable griddle plugged in next to the coffee maker.

"Okay, we're going to make the pie at...some...other...location? Help me out here, love."

She doesn't even know _how_ to help him out, this whole thing is ridiculous, but...it had also been sort of fun. She's got the weekend off for a change, and if she wants to spend it playing house with the guy from Sephora, that's not a crime, right?

"No, no, sorry, you're right, we'll make it at your place," she says, and turns decisively to the left.

She'll "break up" with him on Sunday.

She _will_.

&&.

Sunday turns into Monday turns into Friday turns into halfway through next week and it's weirdly every bit as chaste as if they were actual kids playing pretend.

Or maybe it's the opposite — maybe they're _so_ adult about it that they've moved right into the sexless, monotonous, monogamous grind toward death.

They're just _that_ good.

Whatever it is, it's regrettable, because he's hot as hell.

There've been moments, skirting around each other in his kitchen, sitting on the couch in her apartment, where she thought maybe they'd drop the whole game, maybe he'd finally bend her over something and fuck her until she was seeing stars, but every single time, he's diffused the tension swiftly and sweetly.

Boop-ing flour on her nose.

Settling her napkin on her lap.

Inviting Henry to come play Mario Kart with them.

(And that — _that_ — had been the worst and best of it all: how good he was with Henry.

Henry who's started to visit Sephora after school to map out the "color palette" for his zombie makeup.

Henry who's started to get a look in his eye every time she calls this thing a joke.

Henry who's started to get attached.

Right.

 _Henry_.)

 

 

 

(Ahem.)

&&.

They've cut out a lot of the coy, this-is-a-game parts of things — no longer does he pretend like he knows what she wants to do for her birthday at the end of the week, instead, he just asks her, and she responds.

Like this is a relationship.

Like it's _real_.

"What do you want to do on Friday, love?"

"Oh, uh, I guess just happy hour after work? I'll invite some people — you can, too, if you want."

It takes literally until Friday at six for her to realize what she's done.

&&.

"Emma Swan, who is that man getting you a drink?"

"That's Killian, my...ugh, all right...my boyfriend."

" _What_?"

"I — you know what? The truth is just gonna be even weirder, so yeah, he's my boyfriend. We've been together for two weeks or two years, depending on who you ask."

"I'm asking _you_ , Emma, what's going on? Is he — that's the manager at Sephora, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mary Margaret, he's the manager at Sephora. I don't know. I think we're dating, listen, it's my birthday, can my present be that you and David don't make this weird?"

She should've known David was listening, and when he jumps in, she doesn't know why she's surprised. "I don't know, Emma, that's a pretty big ask. _No_ weirdness over the leather jacket at the bar getting your drink?"

"Please?"

"Fine, but consider it your Christmas present, too — he's wearing _eyeliner_."

&&.

It's during the fourth round of darts and the third time she's seen Victor and Ruby paw at each other in the last hour that she starts to get a little bit bitter. 

She's somehow already argued with this guy about leaving the dish brush in the sink (her) versus the dishwasher (him) and yet he's never had his tongue in her mouth. 

Two whole weeks of this sexless marriage/brand new relationship with nary an orgasm in sight and, _god_ , does he look like he knows how to give them. 

And have them.

And like he'd be just the right amount of rough.

And probably a talker. 

And...damn it, damn it, _damn it_ , she just needs to get laid. 

Or at least make out in the back hallway of the Rabbit Hole — a scant probably forty, fifty feet from where she stands now. 

She calls David over and deposits her darts in his hand, leaving him on his own to finish the game against his girlfriend, which means that in five minutes, they'll abandon it to save a litter of kittens or lead a youth group or something, but that's fine because Emma only _needs_ five minutes. 

"Killian, c'mere, I wanna show you something," she calls, raising her voice to be heard over the jukebox. It's playing some '80s song about a mirror in the bathroom that makes her briefly consider that space over the back hallway, but no, Ruby and Victor have probably — _definitely_ — had sex in the bathroom and she's not into locational sloppy seconds. 

"What is it, love? Robin was just telling me his girlfriend is the _mayor_ , if I'd realized you had such connected friends, I might have already married you."

" _Killian_."

"Oh, right, yes, sorry, we don't joke about that, I'd forgotten." He smiles at her in that shit-eating way he always does when he thinks they're playing the game, but she doesn't have time for it right now.

"No, just, ugh, come here, come on, follow me."

She grabs his hand, weaving them around the tables until they're standing in the back hall. It's poorly lit, and chilly, the service door hissing air through its seals, but all she can feel is the warm buzz of anticipation humming in her blood. 

"What was it you wanted to show me?" He's glancing up and down the hall, surrounded by peeling paint and empty boxes. 

"I didn't want to show you anything, we need to talk."

"Oh. _Oh_. Is this about that fruity drink? I know we'd settled on you as a beer drinker, I just thought with it being your birthday and —"

"What? No."

"Well, it's just — I've found when a woman says we need to talk, I'm rarely in for a pleasant conversation."

"It's a good thing I didn't actually mean talking then either, huh?"

"Wait, Swan, I'm lost, help me here."

There's a part of her, some shining, secret part, that wants the romantic bits of a first kiss, wants the tentative lead in, the flickering glances at lips, the body language and nerves and build up, but there is a larger part of her that is impatient and, like, _crazy_ attracted to him, and it's that part that grabs his collar and yanks him toward her. 

It probably could've been painful, all teeth clacking together and smushed noses and bitten lips, but it's not. Oh god, it is _not_. 

It's _perfect_. 

Killian adjusts almost immediately, fitting his mouth against hers in the space of a single heartbeat, his lips warm and soft where they meet her own. 

His hand moves to cup her cheek, the tips of his fingers tangling in her hair as she clutches his collar tighter, bringing him closer, closer, closer. 

Her tongue slips out just for a beat, one quick pass against his lips just to give him the idea, and he follows so, _so_ well, the hot, wet slide of his tongue into her mouth everything she's been dreaming of for two weeks. 

She moves her hands from his collar and into his hair just to get them out of the way, pressing her chest against his own before he's backing her up to the wall, pinning her to it and sliding a thigh between her legs. 

There's a moment, a split second of readjustment, and she's afraid he's going to pull away, but then he's back, his head tilting, kissing her deeper and wetter and hotter than before as they clutch at each other like some overwrought romantic movie, the music swelling as she grinds against his leg, angels singing a chorus of — 

"Get it, girl!"

Of all the people that could've stumbled across them, Ruby is likely the worst _and_ the best, but regardless, they both pull away at the interruption, Killian rocking back as she moves to fill the last remaining centimeters between her body and the wall. 

"Oh, no, no, don't stop on my account, I don't think I've ever been prouder, Ems."

"Ems?" Killian murmurs low, trying out the nickname. 

" _No_ ," she tells him firmly. 

He shrugs, the movement making his clothes rustle against her own, proving that they haven't really moved _that_ far apart. 

Victor appears in the hallway, casting shadows as between him and Ruby, they're blocking most of the bar's lighting. 

"Did you find her?" Victor peers over Ruby's shoulder in time to his question, answering it for himself. " _Ah_ , uh. Maybe we'll just give you a minute, shall we?"

Ruby grins, making a show of trying to get a glimpse of Killian's lower half. "Yeah, Killian, do you need a minute?"

Emma's mind reflexively flips back, trying to recall if there was anything interesting, like, say, an erection, while she was busy dry-humping his thigh, but she comes up blank. 

Killian clears his throat, scratching behind his ear. "No, no, I'm all right." 

He grabs Emma's hand, tugging her back from the wall. 

"I think it's birthday cake time," he says, leading her to follow where Ruby and Victor have practically skipped back into the main room of the bar. 

"What? There's cake?"

"Well, not quite. Sort of. Just come see, love."

The "cake," as it turns out, is not cake at all, but mudslide shots and Fireball chasers, with Killian producing a lighter for her to blow out when the singing's done. 

Everyone — even Mary Margaret and David — lift their shot glasses to Emma, one in each hand, before downing them, and it’s easily the best birthday cake she’s ever had, mostly because she's still astounded to have a family to share it with. 

Killian nudges her, gesturing at the empty glasses, "Did you figure it out?"

"Hmm?" It’s a lot of work, even that small noise, because she’s warm and happy and she’ll have to leave soon, she knows, her own personal rule about not leaving Henry home alone past 9, but for right now, everything is just…really, really _good_.

"The shots," he says, smacking his lips. "The dessert you seem to like best — the hot chocolate and cinnamon — this seemed appropriate."

It’s so thoughtful, in such a boy way, a boy _friend_ way, that it feels like everything hits her again, but this time all at once, the alcohol and hormones zipping through her until she’s throwing her arms around Killian and hugging him tightly. 

"Thanks," she mumbles into his shirt, smothering her dopey smile against the fabric when she feels him press a kiss into her hair. 

"Anytime, Swan," he says, pulling back, but still keeping his arms loosely around her waist. "What do you think? Does this top the Great Bounce-House Birthday of 2013?"

He's got his "imagining our fictional past" grin on, but for the first time since all of this started, it aches a little bit. 

Because she's starting to wish it was all real. 

She excuses herself a little bit later, needing to get back to Henry, and when he offers to walk her home, she almost declines, relenting only when she sees him pulling his jacket on. 

She does _love_ that jacket. 

&&.

It ends up being a good thing Killian had come home with her because Henry had made cupcakes. 

And it's not so much that he'd cleaned out the oven and found candles and they'd both sung to her again that gets her. 

It's that Henry tells her later that he'd gotten the inspiration from Killian — not to make birthday cupcakes, but to even try to bake at all. 

"I want to get as good as Killian, Mom. I bet if he helps, we could do all the Thanksgiving desserts this year."

The idea that Killian could be around for Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and all the holidays after, that these memories they keep making up could be _real_ , just like she was wishing for an hour ago, it's...a lot. 

She has visions of the next week, trying to avoid his texts and calls, explaining to Henry why she — not Killian — is handling his zombie makeup, explaining to her friends where her "boyfriend" went, explaining to her _heart_ where her boyfriend went, and it's that more than anything that convinces her to stay put. 

For once in her life, it's easier to choose happiness than it is to not, and when Killian shows up at the sheriff's station the next afternoon, a grilled cheese from Granny's in his hand, she kisses him again. 

&&. 

The next week passes in a blur. 

The lead up to Halloween (and Halloween itself) are always a riot for their department, monitoring Trunk or Treat events at the schools, passing out reflective accessories for costumes, organizing the safe candy check-ins — the list goes on and on.

By the time Halloween morning rolls around, she's worked something like 80 hours, kissed Killian exactly four times, and only seen version three of Henry's zombie makeup (they're on version _nine_ for tonight). 

She's ended up having to manage her personal plans for the day every bit as strategically as her professional ones. 

Henry is going to spend the day at Sephora, where Killian will work on his makeup in spare moments in order to be able leave right at 6 and head to Emma's place to pass out candy.

Henry will go to Robin's to take Roland trick-or-treating and then spend the night there — a long-standing tradition (...bullet-dodge) from when Henry was 10 and suddenly began hinting around about wanting a little brother. 

Emma herself will get off work at 8, where David will invoke Emma's on-call status only in emergencies where loss of life or limb are involved.

After work, she'll stop by the Hood 'hood to see Henry in all his undead glory and then book it home just in time to hit the last crush of trick-or-treaters. 

Then...be alone...in an empty apartment...with Killian.

(She's trying not to think too much about that last part.)

(Her underwear matches though.)

&&. 

She literally screams when Henry jumps out at her from the bushes, he looks incredible, every bit The Walking Dead extra she knows he was hoping for.

She's tempted to stay a bit longer, hit a few houses with them, but Henry shoos her away, telling her she's _got_ to see Killian's costume, so she goes, swiping a few packs of Sweet Tarts for the road, laughing as she hears Roland whining about having to visit Archie’s house next. Archie always gives out toothbrushes.

&&. 

He's Captain _fucking_ Hook. 

And none of this Party City, $29.99 bullshit either, real, honest-to-god leather pants, and leather coat, and embroidered vest, and gleaming metal hook and —

"Jesus, Killian, do you do this every year?" She's laughing, walking around him in a slow, appreciative circle as they wait for the next crop of candy-seeking kids. 

"As a matter of fact, Swan, I _do_. This costume has more than paid for itself over the years."

"Yeah? Well, you look..." 

"I know." It's delivered with such a cocky smolder that she can't tell if she wants to kiss him or shove him, but the decision is made for her when the doorbell rings and he greets the trick-or-treaters fully in character. 

It's kiss. 

It's _definitely_ kiss. 

&&. 

She should've expected that Halloween falling on a Saturday would mean that the kids would be coming by further into the night than usual — it's past 9:30 before they give out the last of the candy and turn off the porch light. 

"So, love, what do you think? Our most successful Halloween yet?"

She bites her lip, considering what she wants to say. It's fun to play along, she's gotten way more into it than she expected over the last three weeks, but...she wants something real now. 

It's just a matter of telling him, and hoping he feels the same. 

"It's our only Halloween," she says, and there, that's enough of an opening for now. 

"Swan?"

His eyebrows furrow down for a second, and she's tempted to jump back into the game just to save face, but there's something in the air, the sugar and the autumn leaves and the way there's three pumpkins on her stoop that she _knows_ Henry didn't carve on his own that make her dig in. 

" _Yet_ ," she says. "It's our only Halloween _yet_...but I think — I think we're off to a good start."

She can see the exact moment it clicks for him, something in his body going slack in recognition. 

"You do?" 

She nods. "I mean, I didn't get to wear a costume this year, I'd like to fix that for the next one, but, yeah, good start."

He ducks his head, looking up at her, his eyes rimmed in even more eyeliner than usual, and she tracks that switch, too, the one that makes the room feel that much warmer, that much more intimate. 

"Oh, I don't know, darling, I haven't seen what you've got on under that sweater, might have a costume hidden away."

She edges closer. "I might."

His hands find her hips, the cool metal of the hook brushing her skin in a gap above her jeans. 

"Perhaps I should...check?" He brings his un-hooked hand up, a finger tapping against his lips as he looks her up and down. 

"Perhaps you should."

She leans in slowly, gaze fixed on him as he does the same, right up until the moment their lips meet and her eyes close as her mouth opens. 

They've had a handful of kisses over the past week, frantic make outs in more hallways, one particularly noteworthy session on her couch after Henry had gone to bed, but this puts them all to shame, because this — _this_ is going somewhere. 

She moves her hands to his hair, kissing him not in a way that feels sexy or performative or coy, but in a way that feels _good_ , the way she wants to kiss him, and the she wants him to kiss her, drawing his tongue into her mouth, nipping at his bottom lip, everything sucking and wet and rhythmic. 

If this were a normal seduction, she might try to get them to her bedroom, well, _seductively_ , but Killian’s definitely used the whole "fake longterm relationship" thing to great effect over the past month, it’s her turn.

She breaks the kiss, stepping back from Killian, and taking a moment to revel in the dazed look on his face before navigating around the coffee table. "Come on," she says, and gestures up the stairs before moving to climb them.

He’s following, she can feel it, but if she stops to look, she’s going to end up kissing him again, and instead she barrels on toward her bedroom, pushing open the door and waiting for him to join her. 

She crosses to the side of the bed in only the dim moonlight coming through the drapes, tugging the chain to turn on a lamp, and from the look in Killian’s eye as she does it, this whole thing ended up being plenty seductive after all. 

"Emma…" He’s inching closer, everything feeling warm and full of anticipation, but she nearly laughs, because this whole thing is fucking wild — that the guy from Sephora is in her bedroom. The date she contemplated shoving a breadstick up her nose just to get away from is _here_.

And he’s dressed like _Captain Hook_. 

There are a thousand pillage and plunder jokes on the tip of her tongue, but she bites them back in favor of pulling him toward her. There’s always next year.

After that, it’s purely logistical, she’s got no space in her head for anything that isn’t related to getting his clothes — and hers — off. 

His coat is heavy and it hits the floor with a meaningful thud right at his feet, his hook is tossed aside, leather pants unlaced, boots and shirt gone…somewhere, as he makes similar progress with her own garments.

There’s a moment where he’s just in his boxer briefs, and she’s topless but still in her jeans that she’s convinced he’s going to find a way to fuck her right through a few layers of cotton, rutting her into the bed with determination.

"Killian, hey, _hey_ , jeans." She tries to redirect his attention, but his mouth is working a mark into her neck, setting her squirming and arching up beneath him. 

Her hands grip the smooth, muscled skin of his back, pulling and scratching and _fuck_ , maybe she’s wrong, maybe her jeans don’t need to come off at all, if he’d just…press…right…there.

He licks down her neck, across her shoulder, and she’s steeling herself for some torturous, protracted, teasing thing when instead he just goes for it, mouth on one breast, hand on the other, pressing and sucking and kneading until she feels herself right on the edge, grinding against the ridge of his erection.

It’s the thought of a few minutes from now, when they’ll be naked and he’ll be inside her that tips her over, coming with a stuttering moan as he works her through it.

"There it was," he says, pulling back only to press another line of kisses along her jaw.

"What?" The word seems a little slurred, but she can’t be bothered to say it again more clearly.

"It was a debt from the bar, repaid now."

She presses herself back into the mattress, trying to get a better look at him, her body still boneless and tingling. 

"A dry-humping debt?"

He grins. "Such coarse language from a princess."

"I'm not a princess." She arches her hips to punctuate the sentence. 

He holds up a finger and then pushes himself back from her and off the bed, before unbuttoning her jeans and tugging them, along with her underwear, right off. 

With dramatic flair, he also flings her socks away, until she's lying naked on the comforter and he gestures to her with a sweep of his hand. 

"What do you think princesses look like underneath all that tulle and lace?" He drags a finger through the wetness between her legs, stopping to press firmly against her clit. "Because I'd wager they look like something like this."

He begins trailing sucking little kisses up her thighs until his lips hover over her entrance, his eyes locked with hers over the expanse of her body. "Which means you had a costume tonight after all."

Before she can respond, he presses his tongue against her, a long, slow lick that tracks the same path his finger had taken a moment ago.

She winds her hands through his hair, urging him on, until he's working his mouth against her in earnest, an entire goddamn buffet of wonderful things, tongue-fucking her, sucking on her clit, he gets a couple fingers involved at one point, the wet, sucking sounds of them pumping in and out only barely audible over the way he's moaning encouragement against her. 

She could come again like this, she's sure of it, but that would mean the one when he's inside of her will be tiny, just an echo of what's building in her veins right now, and so she allows herself only a few seconds more before she's tugging at his hair and squirming back away from his mouth. 

"What?" he says, his mouth wet, and, fuck, he looks _wrecked_ , and she is so, _so_ into it. 

"You, too, come on, up, up, up." She grabs uselessly at his shoulders, trying to convince him to make the trip before leaning over to her nightstand and rummaging in the drawer for a condom. 

His reach is longer and he takes over the task, tearing a packet from the line and the room is so quiet, she can hear the little perforations give way. 

She squirms down, tugging at the waistband of his boxer briefs, but she's not going to get them off without his help and instead she settles for gripping his cock through the thin cotton, giving him a few firm strokes until he takes the hint. 

He tosses the condom to the comforter and backs up off the bed, shoving the cotton down. She grabs the packet and shifts until she's lying on her stomach and resting on her forearms, mouth level with his erection where he stands in front of her. 

She makes a point of catching his eye before she leans in, licking along the underside of his cock a few times before moving to take him entirely in her mouth. 

He groans low at the feeling, his hand resting in her hair and she bobs slowly, hollowing out her cheeks to suck at him while she works a hand to cup his balls. 

That earns her a much louder noise, nearly a yelp, but an encouraging one, a _pleading_ one, and she repeats the motion, speeding up her mouth a tiny bit as he stutters out gasps and grunts above her. 

"Yeah, like that, fuck, _fuck_ , that's so good." His finger shift to twine in her hair, his thumb brushing her jaw, and she shifts his cock in her mouth until it's angled against her cheek, and he's pressing against himself through the thin skin of her cheek. 

She has a fleeting thought that she must look absolutely debauched, and it's confirmed when he hisses out a helpless noise. 

"Fuck, oh god, that looks so hot."

She pulls back, righting him in her mouth, and starts up again, slow, deep movements right down to the base of him, and she mentally tracks the sound of his voice, the tension in his body, as she waits for him to wave her off — she has a feeling he won't let himself come like this. 

(Or, well, not this time — she's definitely looking forward to it in the future.)

The call to stop comes right after she lightly scrapes her teeth against him, the groan so loud and appropriately pornographic that she repeats the action one last time before pulling away. 

She shuffles around on the bed, rolling to her  back and flipping around so that her head is on a pillow. She has a brief thought that, wait, maybe actually _she_ would like to be on top, and ride him right into the fucking mattress, but then he's crawling on top of her, his chest hair scraping against her nipples as he kisses her, all wet, hot mouth and the taste of herself on his tongue, and instead she mentally places that position on the _next time_ list, right below, "make him come in my mouth."

He goes groping for the condom, now somewhere near the foot of the bed, and she hears the rip and waits the few seconds until he's back on top of her, settling between her legs as he props himself up on his arms. 

"Sure about this, Emma?"

She tips her head up, nudging his nose with her own. "What, this? We've been at this for years, right?"

"Emma," he says again, dropping a kissing on her lips, but making it clear from his tone that he wants a real answer. 

"Yeah, I'm sure."

He wiggles a little bit, a silly set of movements that she'd laugh at if only it didn't put him in the exact right position to slip inside her an inch. 

"You're quite wet, Swan." He lifts his head, presumably to make sure she gets the full swaggering effect. 

"Yeah? Well, your mouth was down there — probably just saliva."

"Oh, I don't think so, princess," and then he's pushing forward until he's buried inside of her, making her feel so full that she can't keep back her groan. 

"Yeah, that's it," he murmurs. "Let me hear you."

Her legs lift to wrap around his waist, keeping him in place as he sets into a slow, deep rhythm, catching her clit on every angled drag of his hips. 

She fists one hand into his hair, the other scratching up and down his back as he presses his face to her neck, alternately tonguing and biting at the place where it meets her shoulder. 

"God, _fuck_ , that feels really good," she moans, trying to get him to move faster, but he's so stubborn, mumbling an "aye" into her skin before nipping at her earlobe.

She lets him have his way for a few long moments, lets him build and pant and kiss her, but when it gets to be in that space between too much and not enough, she moves both of her hands down, gripping his ass with renewed urgency. 

"Faster," she pleads, "go _faster_ , fuck, harder, c'mon."

He levers up on his hands, locking his eyes with hers for a moment. 

"As you wish," he says, and then he's off like some fucking sex rocket, everything fast and frantic and friction, and _ohmygod_ , just like that. 

"You're so tight, god, yeah, that's good, take it all, fuck, _fuck_." He's grunting above her, wanton little sounds that sneak out in the gaps between his words, both of them breathing out half-thoughts and pleas and encouragement. 

She’s teetering on the edge, just the slightest bit more, her hands still gripping him tightly, "I want to come, I want to come," and he bites down on that space between her neck and shoulder one last time, the word _please_ ghosting against her skin, and then she’s there, the feeling exploding through her body like a thousand firecrackers, everything warm and buzzing and, "you, too," she manages, and he _listens_ , his hips pressed tightly to hers as he empties himself with a long, fucking _incredible_ sound. 

It feels like only a second later, but might have actually been hours when he shifts to move off of her, she keeps him there an extra moment, tightening her limbs as she kisses him, before allowing him to shuffle to the bed next to her. 

She flings out an arm, too boneless to even cuddle up to him properly, her hand landing on his stomach and she lets her fingers trace the muscles there. 

"If I may," he says. "It really does seem like we've been at that for years."

"Yeah, it was…yeah. I mean, you know." She’s having trouble caring about putting her words in order, instead raising the hand on his stomach in the air. "High five."

He meets her hand with his own. "Aye, love, high five."

(Henry comes home the next morning, clearly unsurprised to see Killian in the kitchen, and together they make blueberry muffins for breakfast — the kind with the crumbly top.)

&&.

The next year for Halloween she goes as a true princess, gown and all. The year after that, she’s a pirate’s wench. 

The year after _that_ , she’s a pirate’s wife. 

(The ring isn’t part of the costume.)

 


End file.
